Despair
by AnnCarter
Summary: House is in despair. Post finale.


**Name:** Despair.

**Writer:** Ann.

**Fandom: **House.

**Rating:** PG13.

**Timeline:** Post finale.

**All rights for House reserved to FOX and David Shore. Unfortunately they're not mine.**

* * *

_House._

_House._

_House._

The word echoed in his mind, repeating itself nonstop. Every time he thought it would end, every time he thought he would get some peace and quiet, it only continued louder, as if it had just been yelled off a deep valley in the center of his mind. He limped through the door into the apartment, trying to walk in a straight line. He was so dizzy his apartment dances around him, as if trying to drive him crazy before the vicodin does so. He leaned against the wall for a moment, closing his eyelids on his blue eyes for a moment as he tried to retain a bit of strength. Opening his eyes, he tried to continue moving, but fell down on the floor, his case falling from his hand.

He wanted to get up, but after one weak attempt he gave up and remained lying on the cold floor of his home. He could barely see anything, as it was around midnight in New Jersey and he didn't bother to turn on the lights when he entered the apartment. He could see the outlines of his sofa and his guitars hanging on the wall in front of him. He could see his piano and the door to his bathroom, and many other objects he could not quite identify. And then, slowly, tired of seeing it all again, he closed his eyes, for the first time in a while allowing his body to relax.

_House._

His mind called for him. Again and again, he heard the voices. They changed. One moment it was Wilson's dead girlfriend, Amber, and in the next it was his ex-girlfriend, Cuddy. It was Cameron, and then Dominika, who was followed by Stacy. He heard his mother's voice, and once again the others' voices. They repeated themselves continuously, as if trying to see how fast he will lose the last link to the world of the living he had left.

Not that he minded. If it was up to him, he would be long gone. He did not want to be House anymore. He didn't want to exist. Suddenly there was no point to being cynical and mean to others, because he simply knew his mistakes were far worse than theirs. He watched them living their lives, and for the first time ever, didn't care about what other people did. He didn't want to care about anything anymore. He didn't want to stay alive.

_Wake up._

"No."

His whisper was hoarse. He did not open his eyes, yet he could see the images in front of them, whether he liked it or not. He saw everything, from the very first thing he remembered until the very moment he entered his apartment minutes earlier. He watched his childhood all over again, saw himself in medicine school and looked at the young man who first stepped into Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He felt again the pain of his hurt leg, just like in the moment he woke up to find out what Stacy had done to him. He saw, heard and felt everything.

_House. Wake up._

He tried to get up, tried to roll over, anything he could think of in order to rid himself of the thoughts, memories and feelings overwhelming him. He tried all he could. But despite his desperate attempts, all he got was Wilson's voice.

"House."

"No."

"House-"

"Go away."

He tried to be as commanding as he could, but the result was hardly commanding. Even the real Wilson would not have gone away had he been there. And House's own mind was worse- it was unlikely to leave him alone, no matter what House would do. He knew himself too well – the only way to rid himself of the voices and characters was to end everything, something he once again felt willing to do.

"Are you okay?" Wilson's voice was worried. He could almost feel him touching him, trying to help him get up from the floor. It could have easily been the real Wilson, the one House knew he will never get to see again. He did not believe it; he knew better than that. Yet it was so easy to believe, just for a second, that Wilson was really there for him…

"You know the answer," He replied, his voice hoarse and cold. He could not allow himself to play a part in his mind's tricks.

There was a silence for a moment, and House had nearly let himself hope that it was over. But then Wilson's voice spoke once again, leaving his head spinning once again. "What… what are you talking about?" He sounded confused, puzzled. He sounded _real_.

"Go away."

"Get up."

"I'm not gonna get up." He felt himself shaking slightly, God knows why. "Never. Get the hell outta my head." He tried to order. But the shaking and quiet, hoarse, painful voice made it hard for him to command his brain. Hell, they made it hard for him to command anything that moment. He wouldn't even be able to command Cameron had she been there.

"House-"

"You're dead, Wilson!" He yelled, still not opening his eyes. The cheek that touched the floor hurt from talking, but he did not stop. "You're fucking dead. And there's nothing left for me here. So just get the hell outta here and let me be alone."

"You shouldn't be alone right now." Wilson's voice was so soft, House almost fell for it. But he was there. He watched his only friend slowly die, and knew there was nothing he could do about it. He knew he would be completely alone, and wished for a way to stop it, yet he knew there was no way. Wilson died in his arms, and like the voices, this was nothing but a hallucination, one his mind created in order to keep him alert.

But House did not want to be alert. He wanted nothing. The only thing he could want was to be left alone, to be able to join his friend. He was already alone, either abandoned by people or after abandoning them. The only thing he wanted now was that his mind would let him be as well.

_House._

He ignored the voices who returned, ignored hallucinated-Wilson who kept annoying him, and grabbed his half-empty bottle of vicodin. Without hesitation, he swallowed all of his pills and closed his eyes, hoping for the end to come.


End file.
